


i could have been

by mizael



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizael/pseuds/mizael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yuuya hates him and, if Reiji were in his shoes, he’d hate himself, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could have been

The first thing he sees after the battle and debris and the sounds of the Action Field deactivating (he likes to think of it as a scuffle, some in-fight between allies) is not hate amidst the turmoil, anger, despair, but—Yuuya looks at him with pity. It’s not a sympathetic pity, not as naive as _I understand_ because _how could_ he, when Reiji is sixteen and already has to think about pawns, soldiers, strategy, _how to save a world_ and things that aren’t written in books but in blood; in the hard punch of experience that leaves him winded every time.

No—it’s—more of a pity reserved for those who have lost, a look that sends Reiji reeling, mind turning with battle tactics and plans and alliances he has to form but he forgets them in that moment. Yuuya isn’t insensitive enough to say _I understand_ because he doesn’t, but he’s blunt enough to mouth a _I’m sorry_ and Reiji would have much preferred that _I understand_.

What is he sorry for? For the childhood Reiji lost due to his father’s ambition? For the person Reiji became to protect his world? For the villainous manipulation he pulls like they’re all puppets at his fingertips, obliged to follow through his every word because they _don’t know_ anything? Because he finds that withholding information is a better motivator than kidnappings or bribes, blackmail or rousing, heroic speeches?

He doesn’t get an answer then, because Yuuya’s face is in the ground, scraping against the cement. Reiji takes all of two seconds to regain his composure—two seconds too much—and declares the rest of his plans, intentions, all the goals he’s been working for. He knows they hate him, that they don’t understand, that they’re all dragged into this mess without an ounce of information because Reiji isn’t good at communicating, has problems with trust.

( _He trusted before, in warm, tan hands that pat his hair and the lovely ring of a woman’s laughter, surrounded by picturesque plant life and chirping birds. He remembers a trophy the size of him, that he couldn’t carry because his arms were too weak, but he was stubborn enough to try until those dark-skinned hands took it from him and added it to the case. Another trophy for the collection._

 _He trusted in that_ I’m so proud of you, Reiji _and now it’s gone, like everything else. Now his mother doesn’t laugh except for that cold sneer of hers when she’s got the upper hand. Now there aren’t stronger, darker hands to help him lift burdens from his shoulders because in between the soft pats and reassuring rubs, he feels the sting of his father’s rejection, still feels it burning on his cheek._

 _His brother wasn’t even born yet, couldn’t even experience the joys of a family. That’s partially his fault, too, maybe, that he took advantage of Reira’s genius and put it to work, because_ this is war _and there’s no need for weakness, now._

 _He robs Reira of that happiness in the same way his father robs his, and he hates himself for it._ )

So he thinks that’s the end of it, that Yuuya and his friends and the rest of the Lancers will leave him alone while he goes back to his office and plans (hides). He has three sets of backups, needs to create more in the case of emergency. He’s so busy working his brain that he’s sure he’s forced his developmental process to go through ten years in ten months, but that’s not a thought that he can have the luxury of having.

He sits in his office and stares at the screen flashing in front of him with bright numbers and charts, theoretical calculations and chances of success. His hands move on autopilot and his brain follows easily (how scary is it that he can slip into this routine like he’s not a human but a machine, but he doesn’t think that either).

Instead, his mind drifts back to Yuuya on the ground, cheek split open on the hard cement as the Action Field dissolves. He still feels that gaze that he thought for sure was a glare, but Yuuya doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body, only irrationality and well-placed anger. Reiji can’t blame him because he can’t blame himself, either; he’s still got too much pride, too much confidence.

Yuuya’s pity doesn’t leave him humiliated, insulted, defensive or hurt. It only drives his confusion, because he can’t understand why, when he is thrusting Yuuya forward to a place he doesn’t want, with an uncertain future and plans and Yuzu’s well-being, that Yuuya still has the audacity to turn his head up and soften his eyes.

 _Of course, I still hate you_ , Yuuya will tell him later when they’re alone, when he’s gone up to see Reiji still awake at two in the morning with eight sets of papers and three screens. He doesn’t question why he’s here but he doesn’t ask him to _leave_ , either. Reiji tells himself it’s because he wants to know why Yuuya would look at him like that (but denies that he already knows because Yuuya is simple—not stupid, but simple. And sometimes things don’t _have_ to be complicated).

Yuuya hates him and, if Reiji were in his shoes, he’d hate himself, too.

(Implying he doesn’t already.)

But then _I’m sorry_ , he’ll say again, except this time Reiji hears the regret in his voice, the lack of hatred and anger as opposed to his moving but silent mouth only hours ago. Questions form again. He opens his mouth to reply but Yuuya doesn’t give him the chance.

 _For everything_.

For what?

Yuuya’s smiles aren’t supposed to be sad, not with the way Reiji has watched his duels, watched his plastic smile even though there are tears brimming at the edge of his eyes. Even then they aren’t sad, they’re _fake_ , and Yuuya himself is sad but—a smile isn’t supposed to be sad.

 _Don’t pity me_ , he tries to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. He’s not some prideful villain refusing to accept help, even if he has to play the part. Instead, there’s a straining silence that pulls at him to say something better, something _real_ , something not manufactured for the rest of his plans because yes, Yuuya hates him, but that’s fine because that’s how it’s _supposed to be_.

He ends up not saying anything, but Yuuya recognizes the halt in his fingers. The clock hits three and the screens dim. He needs to sleep.

 _Hey_ , and then Yuuya is reaching over the desk to him. Reiji lets him take his hands until they’re pulled up to his face. He still doesn’t say a word but that silence is volumes of approval, volumes that Yuuya picks up on with a smile (it’s still sad).

 _Hey_ , again. Yuuya’s hands are more calloused than his own, from running around fields and crashing into dirt, training far harder than Reiji has to because Reiji is a genius and Yuuya is not. He feels the struggle in every bump on Yuuya’s hands, every time he picked himself up after he fell because the world will not take him, not so long as Yuuya still has the will to keep on going, keep on fighting, keep on _striving_.

Reiji’s hands are smooth in contrast, soft and delicate, silky like a newborn’s. He almost laughs at the sheer irony of it all—creation is rough, destruction is soft.

 _Reiji_ , he says but doesn’t look at him. Instead his eyes are focused on the joining of their hands, Yuuya tugging, Reiji not unwilling but not moving either. _Hey, Reiji_.

He still thinks he should say something, but Yuuya brings his hands closer until he molds them to the sides of his head, presses Reiji’s thumb to his cheeks and moves his fingers until Reiji is holding Yuuya’s face in a caress.

 _Yuuya_ , he finally says something but Yuuya just smiles (still sad) and leans forward like Reiji is pulling him closer. He doesn’t take his hands from Yuuya’s face, or rather he can’t, because Yuuya is still holding on to them like a lifeline, still presses his palms into his face and doesn’t let him let go.

The moment Yuuya’s hip hits the holographic keyboard, it fizzes out of existence. Reiji’s breath goes with it.

Yuuya laughs (it’s also sad) and presses his lips to Reiji’s own, stays there for far too long for it to be an accident. Reiji feels like he should expect something—sparks, maybe. A jump in his pulse, butterflies in the stomach. But he only feels the wind from his lungs. It’s stupidly chaste, innocent, all the things that Yuuya embodies but doesn’t at the same time.

He realizes, then, that Yuuya is two years younger than him; that Yuuya has a family and friends, still has his heart open despite the hate that spills from his mouth; that Yuuya is the very essence of what it means to be human, to hate and still love, to fight and still understand. Yuuya is the ideal he could have been if he didn’t still feel the burn of his father’s hand on his face, his mother’s weeping on an empty bed, his brother’s hollow eyes that only seem to spark when they look at him.

Yuuya is everything he could have become. Reiji could have been Yuuya, could have had friends and a desire to struggle in the face of imposing odds, could have walked into his mother’s room and comforted her instead of waiting outside like a coward, could have shielded his brother from the face of war, could have laughed and cried like a human should.

The kiss is over too quickly and leaves Reiji empty, like Yuuya had taken the last of what little essence he had in him to further his own brightness.

He finds that he doesn’t mind.

 _I still hate you_ , Yuuya says, and it’s not some lie to cover up his true intentions, because Yuuya doesn’t have to lie. _But I’m sorry._

 _For what_ , he finally asks. _What could you possibly be sorry for?_

Yuuya doesn’t answer, just smiles—just _smiles_ , and it’s not sad. It’s brimming with the warmth of the sun, bright and happy, and Reiji almost wants to reach out and snatch him from his perch. Like Yuuya is some mythical creature that he is, for some reason, lucky enough to behold once every hundred years. If he doesn’t reach out, if he doesn’t grab him before he goes, he’ll never get the chance again.

But he recognizes that Yuuya cannot be chained, that Yuuya is too free of a spirit to be held down by anything. Still, Yuuya chooses to stay without the burden of bondage. He sears Reiji’s eyes and _burns_ —everyone else cannot even compare, because he is a star and they are just planets in his orbit, drawn to his gravity.

He realizes belatedly that his hands are still on Yuuya’s face, but Yuuya still doesn’t allow him to move them.

 _Why_ , he tries again. _Why are you sorry?_

Yuuya stays silent. He turns his eyes to Reiji’s purple, royal and majestic like the rest of him (like he’s expected to be). They stay in this mocking lover’s caress for a long time, hours in Reiji’s mind are really only minutes, but neither of them have the heart to move.

But Yuuya opens his mouth and _for everything_ comes out again. Reiji still doesn’t understand. _For everything, for everything._

_For what?_

Reiji would be lying if he ever said that was the first time Yuuya stole his breath, because it’s happened a lot before: during the exhibition match, the tournament, the sheer presence that he carries is enough to move the wind from his lungs. But it’s the only time that matters, because when Yuuya leaves with his breath this time, he doesn’t give it back.

_For the years you have lost, for everything you’ve been through to be here, for the facade you have to keep. I still hate you, of course. I disagree with you and I still want to punch you. I’m sure I’m not the only one. But I’m sorry._

_Why?_

_Because no one else will say it._

**Author's Note:**

> i mostly just wanted to try out a new style hjdsfkkl  
> whoops
> 
> comment if you can? ;u;  
> i'd love to know your opinions


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